


The Conman and the Hitman

by AverageMenace



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blow Jobs, Con Artists, Crimes & Criminals, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Mercenaries, Organized Crime, Past Abuse, Porn, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Scars, Showers, Smut, Strangers, it's not that deep tho, lowkey hostage situation, mostly just nasty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:54:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27084451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AverageMenace/pseuds/AverageMenace
Summary: This hasn't been edited, so apologies for any mistakes. Just a piece of smut between a flirty conman and the hitman hired to kill him.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19





	The Conman and the Hitman

**Author's Note:**

> TW for wrist injury. It’s self-inflicted as a means to escape handcuffs, and referenced a few times.

“So, you seem nice.”

Dean was leaning against his kitchen counter like they could have a casual conversation. Like he hadn’t just cuffed a professional assassin’s wrists behind his back. Like he wasn’t turning over the man’s gun in his hands, or his takeout bag wasn’t left forgotten on the counter, or it hadn’t been as easy as invading the man’s personal space until he backed into the pole. Someone should tell him he can’t back away from his sexuality.

“My name’s Dean, ‘s nice to meet you. I’m twenty seven, uh, my favorite color is orange,” he introduced himself, a dry sort of sarcasm dripping from each word. “I like long walks on the beach.”

Brennon seriously debated the merits of cutting the man's tongue out. Or clipping it. Or just shattering his jaw altogether.

Instead of doing those things, the assassin sat on the stool chair silently, his glare dark and brooding. He didn't need a mirror to know that his zodiac blue eyes were filled with barely contained anger and irritation.

Brennon swept black hair, wavy and shifting into shades of blue, off to the side with a flick of his head.

He felt too large to be sitting in this dainty ass stool. His legs are dangling off the sides, and he didn't want to know why it squeaked when he moved around.

Brennon didn't dare shift his gaze from the glock in Dean's hand for too long. He knew just how bad that could be.

Dean pursed his lips and waved vaguely as if telling him to continue. “Now’s when you give me your name...?”

He wasn’t an idiot, he was just obnoxious. He knew damn well why Brennon wasn’t offering his information, but he felt pretty certain he could coax just a little more information if he pissed him off just a little more. 

“Or I could start guessing? I’m sure I could get it eventually. Would you like me to guess? Or are you going to save us some time?”

The assassin growled softly in response, his eyes defiant despite the cards against him. Come closer and find out, he seemed to challenge. Let's see all that mouth disappear.

Brennon strained against the cuffs, feeling the metal bite into his skin, digging into the bone there. His black shirt went taunt in the shoulders.

He needed to get out of his OWN cuffs and finish the job. Brennon made it a rule not to stick around after a kill for too long.

Go there, plan, dispatch the target, clean up, leave. That had been his routine for years, and it had never failed him. Until now.

So what was different?

Was it the man he'd been hired to kill? Brennon looked over Dean, his lip curl in distaste. No, surely not. Dean didn't seem like the strategic type.

Dean acted goofy, but he was brilliant. It used to drive his grade-school teachers absolutely mad. 

“You’re gonna make me guess, huh. Petty.”

He sighed, stretched, and moved so he stood just arms reach away from Brennan; not that his arms were even free. The man was fast, confusing, and efficient; he could get people to show things before they even registered what was happening. “A. B. C- wait, B. B?”

As if the man had somehow shown that B was right, he continued. “B... Brian. Barry. Benjamin. Bruce. Brad. Brendan. Brendan? I’m close, aren’t I.”

He had a sub-technique, too; if he couldn’t weasel it out on his own, he could always annoy it out of someone. And damn, did this guy seem pissed.

Brennon slipped into his mask: cold, calm, calculating. He just watched Dean, giving nothing away. Or so he hoped. This fuck seemed to know things without being told, and that was yet another card against him.

Just don't lead him on. Your name is Carl Bradford. You have a wife, some little brats running around. You're 26. You're Carl Bradford. You're a a gym owner. You're Carl Bradford. You are Carl Bradford. Carl Bradford.

Dean frowned- well, pouted- and pressed further. “What, you really aren’t going to say anything? Scared I’ll use something against you? Or are you deaf. Or mute.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Maybe you have a weird voice? Big guy like you, people must expect some deep bass shit, but maybe you’re, like- Kermit.” 

He wasn’t letting up, and he wasn’t showing any signs of getting bored any time soon. “Come on, Branden. You can’t just break into a guy’s house and refuse to even talk to him.”

His lips almost quirked at the Kermit remark. Almost. The fact that he was making jokes as shitty as that revealed his type of 5th grade humour. Sad, but what can you do?

Brennon went over everything he'd learned so far:  
\- Dean most likely wouldn't shoot him as long as he didn't move too fast at the wrong time  
\- He was vain  
\- He had the humour of a 9 year old  
\- If he got any closer, he was getting his nose broken.

Time to use that against him.

Brennon sighed through his nose, sliding his gaze away. He seemed nonchalant and bored, as if the tacky magnets on the fridge were more entertaining. Honestly, they were.

There. Were. So. Many. Magnets. And not all of them made sense. Most were tourist tchotchkes that named cities and states. Brennon frowned slightly. He's certainly been around.

Dean followed the merc‘s gaze. “Oh, like ‘em?” He either didn’t sense the man’s distaste, or more likely, didn’t care. “One for every con. Every big one, at least.”

He left the gun across the room on the counter, and casually circled the assassin. He just needed a weak spot, that’s it, and he’d know everything he wanted. It was better if Brennon didn’t see his utterly chilling side, not that it often came out; the less he thought of Dean, the more likely it was he could get some information from those steel jaws. 

“You know,” he decided, reading something in Brennon’s posture. “I bet you don’t know as much about me as you think.”

A slender hand came from behind the larger man, not perverted, simply sliding his palm to the muscular shoulder blade. Maybe to test his reaction, maybe he was impressed with the muscles, maybe both.

The Irishman watched as the space between the con artist and the gun grew and grew. Adrenaline pumped through his system. His legs tensed in anticipation, ready to launch him across the counter.

But then Dean touched him. Brennon jolted in the chair, so touch starved that even that shocked him. "What the Hell’d you do that for?" His voice was a gruff, smoky barb, his accent thick and almost indecipherable with the incredulity in it. His lips curled in aggression, and Brennon jerked away from Dean.

Dean’s hand pulled back in a jolt, eyes wide like he was really, genuinely startled. “Woah,” he held up his hands in a mock surrender, almost apologetically. His mind was racing, analyzing and trying to break the response down. Was the man abused? Had he hurt him somehow? What just happened?

“So, uh, you do have a voice,” he noted, a tad less goofy than before, but still not quite sober.

Brennon scoffed softly, his features pulling into a scowl. Well, there went that plan. Sighing through his nose, the assassin let his shoulders slump; he could still get out of this in one piece and with his target taken out.

"Of course I have a voice. Everyone does. Unless they've met you, then they're probably six feet under with a bullet in their brain." Brennon mockingly looked Dean up in down, his nose wrinkling in distaste. "Can't say I blame them."

“Ooh, bully cliche. That’s fun,” Dean mused. “I’ll have you know, I’m a thief, and good enough at it that killing ain’t a weekly job.” 

Satisfaction. Triumphant victory. He just had to keep the man talking, now; learn who he was, how he’d found Dean, who had hired him, and how to get the hell out of this without ending up at the bottom of a lake.

He crossed his arms over his chest, and while he had some muscles, he was more lean than bulky, and it was nothing next to the Irishman.

Brennon arched his brow and offered nothing more. He'd spoken enough already, and didn't want to keep giving away any more info to this devious bloke.

He looked around the kitchen a little more, his hunger starting to gnaw on him. The last time he ate was around five in the morning, and it was... "Oi, you got the time?" Brennon looked to Dean, his eyes darting down to the man's wrists.

Dean’s eyes didn’t even glance down, didn’t flicker to a single clock, and rather stayed locked on his company. “About eight thirty, nine.” It was dark outside already.

“Can I have your name, please,” he tried again, with mostly innocent motives. He didn’t know what to call the man. “Brendan seems close, but I don’t think it’s right.”

He recognized the man’s hunger but didn’t address it. Maybe that could play to his side?

His brow arched again. Cheeky fuck. "Psychic, are we?" he mumbled, leaning back in the small stool, which groaned in protest. A heavy sigh escaped him. "Isn't there a better place for me to sit? A sofa or something?"

The more he knew about the man or the layout the better. Any pictures, furniture, anything. And if he could get a hold of a possible weapon...

“Good, good,” Dean muttered mostly to himself, like he was observing a car he was buying. “Uh, you’re welcome to stand, but I’m not going to move you. Don’t ask why. Both of us know why.” 

Their careers covered very similar skills, and he knew damn well that transport was the most vulnerable point in a... what, kidnapping? Hostage situation? Whatever this was.

With the hitman’s gun next to him, he stood at the counter and retrieved a plate for his take out.

Brennon stood with fluid grace, watching Dean move about, taking note of his calm gait and demeanor. He seemed... Unnerved. As if this whole situation were just a nuisance.

The assassin scowled slightly. Only an arrogant bastard would eat cheap take out with a hired assassin cuffed with handcuffs and a marble countertop separating him from death.

Black hair fell into his eyes again; he gave a sharp breath, and his hair to just fall further into his eyes. He made a low growl and a withering look.

Dean cocked a brow to glance up at him, as if to say oh, really? He had a fry before he spoke again. “So,” he leaned forward against the counter, head tilted. “You aren’t much of a talker, huh.”

That was it; he didn’t follow up the question, and just waited for an answer like this was a date and it was perfectly normal for a response to take so long. Didn’t seem like Dean would carry on until he replied, either.

Brennon arched his brow mockingly, his irritation crackling in his gut. He nearly bared his teeth like a fucking dog. Twat, he nearly snarled. Not that he didn't already know that.

"What did you do to get me sent to kill you?" He was biding his time. His hands twisted and writhed against their bounds; Brennon bit back a wince when he felt his skin tear.

Dean could see the anger and he didn’t much like it. He hadn’t really done anything personal, besides humiliating the man, maybe. The thief didn’t want any personal problems with the man, who could very well be perfectly friendly.

He’d already started a response when he picked up on the man’s pain. Brennon hadn’t winced too obviously, but his face, where he looked, how he stood…

“I probably stole- uh- sorry, what was that? Something just happened, are you...?” 

‘Are you okay’ was an odd question to ask and he trailed off halfway, seeming genuinely concerned.

His hands went very, very still, but Brennon felt his eyes narrow. A distant female voice spoke to him: Bide your time, Bren. Bide your time.

"What's it to you? Once I'm out of these cuffs, your name will only be associated with theft and old pains in people's asses," he spat, his eyes hardened stones.

Carefully, Brennon made his hands slide against the cuffs. He ignored the pain, using his wounds to his advantage.

Gruffly, the Irishman said, "So, are you going to answer my question? Might as well, right?"

Dean might’ve looked a bit hurt at the insult after the slight vulnerability. He drew back. “Mmn. Same as you should answer mine, but you haven’t.” 

He moved back in front of the man, just out of reach, and sighed. “When you get out of those cuffs, you’re going to kill me. Even if I run.” It was a matter of fact, like he didn’t mind.

How could someone just accept the fact that you're a dead man walking? Brennon curled his lip, from both the sharp pains running up and down his arms but also from the... Defeat? It was as if Dean was put down. This unsettled him, oddly enough.

"For someone who almost guessed my name, you sure are accepting of your fate. No witty remarks? No jokes?" Brennon quirked his lips shrewdly. "For someone who obviously knows their worth, that attitude is certainly pathetic."

Dean shrugged. “Okay.”

He wasn’t depressed, he wasn’t bummed, just... casual. “Well, uh- you really need to stop.” He gestured to his waist- well, through his waist, to the cuffs. The secretion wasn’t working.

“That can’t be all that effective, and- it just-“ he shuddered maybe a little dramatically, like he imagined it happening to himself. “Just- stop it,” he shook his head.

That made Brennon laugh.

The sound was a sharp, harsh sound. One that very few heard with his line of work, and one that made those who heard it cringe. It was a dark chuckle and made his eyes darken and dance with malicious amusement.

"Can't stomach a little blood, Amugha? Almost surprising, but you don't seem like the type to get his hands dirty." Brennon continued to work his hands, feeling his skin rip once again. A wetness started seeping into his black pants, and he nearly rolled his eyes.

Dean’s eyes narrowed, and as if he could sense that he was losing the man’s respect, he shrugged again. “You don’t know anything about me, Killer. Don’t act like you do.”

He stood and shook his head for another moment before moving behind Brennan and groaning in distaste at the sight. “Dude, are you kidding me-? I- Jesus,” he grumbled, slipping the silver key from his pocket and beginning to undo the cuffs, slowly, as to avoid hurting his wrists.

Might as well have the guy kill him if he was going to. Dean suspected he might not, but he doubted the man’s plans would change if he was so invested as to, what, cut his way out of them?

Dean had unlocked only one cuff when Brennon whirled, twisting Dean around as well.

Wrapping the handcuff chain around the smaller male's neck- tight enough enough to get his full attention, but loose enough to allow breath into his lungs- the assassin leaned in close to the conman's ear.

"You truly are an amugha, aren't you? Strange." The Irishman talked softly, his voice midnight soft and velvety. He turned them so that Dean was pressed into the countertop, limiting his movements. Brennon himself was a solid wall behind the man.

"How is it that you can just freely give in? To stop fighting?" Brennon tightened the chain at the base of Dean's neck ever so slightly. "Why make a name for yourself only to throw it away?"

Dean didn’t allow himself to yelp or jump, only pained grunts through grit teeth. “S’just like any other Friday for y’a, huh,” he managed, the slightest pain in his voice even with the humored words. “Figured you’d be into some kinky shit.”

Don’t get me wrong, Dean knew damn well that that wasn’t at all what he was going for. He was just an ass. Couldn’t stop talking even with the metal around his throat. “I don’t speak angry Irishman,” he managed, gripping the counter. “The fuck is a- an amugha-?"

A snarl escaped his throat, and he just tensed over the bastard, his teeth bared. "Damnú ort, amugha little bastún. Think you're so fucking funny, ay?" A snort followed by a growl. "Cheeky, aren't we?"

Brennon stood up straight and splayed his hand in between Dean's shoulder blades. He kept the smaller man pinned to the counter, his other hand feeling him up, searching for any hidden weapons.

This didn't keep him from contemplating the man's physique, however much it physically pained him.

“Woah, there, tiger.” He managed a thin laugh. That only made the thin chain dig into his throat further.

“I think I’m adorable,” Dean strained. “And maybe that you’re a little handsy.”

He didn’t have hidden weapons. Jeans, a form fitting t-shirt, a leather jacket. What he did have was a wallet with three different false IDs, two credit cards for two different accounts, and a few hundred in small bills. About a dozen Bobbi-pins all over. 

He was taken off guard by the larger man’s strength. Maybe he should’ve expected it, but even just the hand on his back was so fuckin big.

Maybe he wanted to die, because the idiot wagged his hips slowly, as casual as anyone could be in that situation. Like he was dancing to music.

His scowling deepened at the other man's words, even as he slid his leg in between Dean's. As he was about to pat up the fucker's legs, however, he decided to do…that.

Brennon stiffened, his eyes wide. He couldn't think, could scarcely breathe. The Irishman was too focused on keeping the blood from rushing south. Chinese take out, Chinese take out, Chinese take out.

Dean remained against the counter; Brennon didn't want him to see the flushed look that was no doubt on his face. "Stop."

Dean knew what was going on, because of course he did. Voice cues, reading people- it was sort of his thing. He hesitated for a beat, almost as if he was a little surprised by just how easy it was. 

“Stop what?” The words made him realize that the chain had loosened the slightest bit. The only advantage he took of this information was breathing properly; clearly the assassin’s obvious dry spell was the path most likely for him to survive.

He didn’t try to turn, he didn’t change his movements. This was a delicate operation.

Brennon took a moment to get a hold of himself, to get his shit together. He felt... Tingly. As if his skin were hypersensitive. Brennon's face grew warm, his groin ached, and he growled, "You know damn well what you're doing."

He thought back to the last time he fucked someone and would have winced if he were a lesser man.

Dean tilted his head back against the merc’s shoulder and met his eye upside-down. “Been a while,” he noted playfully, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Hasn’t it.”

It wasn’t mean, it wasn’t meant to upset him; he was testing if he could fluster the man. Toes in the water, if you will. “‘S alright,” he added before he could reply. “Happens to everybody.”

His movements were growing more and more lewd, and while it wasn’t quite a lap dance, he was certainly rubbing against him more than before.

Their eyes met; steel met with the promise of a good time. Brennon just watched Dean's mouth as he spoke, feeling his temperature rise. Feeling his pants fill. Just kill me, why don't you. That would have ended better than this surely would.

Doubt crept in. Maybe he wouldn't be able to finish this job and he'd let Dean live. He could kill the people who hired him, if worse came to worse, but everyone who hired him knew he generally got to do whatever the Hell he wanted.

Brennon wanted to do terrible things to Dean.

'You are a pawn. A weapon. When you get a job, you no longer have a say in your life.' Various scars littering his body tingled with the phantom words. He needed to get out. To come to his senses. Maybe fuck a few people, but mostly to get him out of Brennon's head.

“Man, you’re easy. Want me to do another trick? Guess how long it’s been for you?”

Brennon clamped his hands down on Dean's upper arms. 'Chinese take out, Chinese take out,' he silently chanted, feeling his resolve slowly slip away from him. The merc felt as if electricity crackled through his veins.

Dean felt a rush of success and felt that maybe this wasn’t just a survival thing. Maybe he was having a lot of fun. Maybe Not-Brendan was actually really fucking hot.

He pushed his hips up just enough to press his ass comfortably into the bulge growing in the man’s trousers. Head still tilted back, he stuck out his tongue and let his eyes flutter up in a boldly lewd expression, upside down and right in front of Not-Brendan’s face.

He took one look at Dean with his tongue curled out and his eyes fluttering, and Brennon moved in close, their breaths mixing. "There's a place in Hell for me, but there's a special place in Hell for you."

Brennon couldn't bring himself to move closer, didn't dare move.

He was on a downward spiral into the bowels of Hell. The Irishman was ready to either bolt or to succumb to the flames.

“Mm, the throne?” The smaller man purred, laughing devilishly and stopping his movements all at once. 

He coaxed him shamelessly, with no sign of trickery because he really didn’t have any ulterior motives. “C’mon, B. Like an inmate’s last meal, yeah? Give me a good fuck and I can die happy. S’not like it wouldn’t be... mutually beneficial.”

With that, he moved his hips again, expertly and too-slowly grinding a plump rear against the larger man’s groin. Dean was always too playful at the worst of times, but this could be the peak.

Brennon shuddered softly, his hands slipping down to grip Dean's waist. He guided his hips, the man's ass fitting over him beautifully. He wasn't listening too closely anymore, catching a few words here and there. The Irishman was too busy working Dean's devilish hips.

The merc dipped his head to nip and bite along Dean's jaw. Enough to get his attention, not enough to hurt terribly. Eyes growing hooded, Brennon trailed love bites down to the curve of Dean's throat.

His hand moved, then, sliding up and underneath the smaller man's shirt. Brennon splayed his hand in between Dean's shoulders, pinning his upper body once again against the countertop.

But this time, when the Irishman stood up straight, he flexed his hips back against Dean's ass.

“Ohhh-kay-“ Dean let himself be molded by the man, not that he could really do much against his muscles anyway. The moment Brennon ground against him, bent over the counter like that, he could swear his soul left his body; there was almost a pang of nervousness in what he’d started. Not that he didn’t like it rough. 

“Wow,” he laughed softly. It didn’t save his cocky persona all that well.

Brennon growled and dug his fingers into Dean's hips, sliding a knee up in between his legs. "Shut up," he ordered gruffly. The Irishman was in no mood to listen to useless banter.

Keeping the hand on the other's back, the merc slid the other around to Dean's zipper and pant button. Deftly, Brennon rid Dean of his pants, jerking them down to his ankles, along with his briefs. Placing a boot on them, he flexed his hips against bare ass slowly, leisurely. "Step out of them."

The knee between his legs earned a huff from Dean, like he’d closed his lips to avoid any unflattering responses, especially so early in their endeavor. When his pants were undone, he raised a brow at the practiced maneuver- or, he would’ve, if he wasn’t so absolutely focused on how half-naked he was. Dean didn’t dare hesitate to follow Brennan’s directions, though, even with the pinkish tint in his cheeks. That was at least one upside of facing away from the man; it hid his faltering pride. 

And, okay, maybe he wasn’t so far gone, because he still shot back a smug, “Don’t have to be so grumpy about it.”

Brennon's hand made contact with bare skin, the slap loud and crisp. “Wh- Hey!” Dean yelped at the smack, jumping despite himself. He couldn’t help it! 

Blood rose in his fair cheeks and he hated it. At least earlier he could pretend he was in charge, but now he was actually very much not, and it was sofuckinghot.

Brennon laid his hand on the reddening skin, kneading softly. As he began sliding the conman's shirt up, the merc left bites trailing up his back. The kneading was upsettingly nice, Dean noted. The bites sent shivers down his spine. Or maybe it was his nudity in the open kitchen. Probably both.

"I said," the larger man leaned over Dean, sliding the shirt over his head, "shut the fuck up." Brennon kicked away Dean's pants and tossed his shirt aside. Something wasn't quite right... 

Ah, yes.

Lifting Dean as if he weighed nothing, Brennon sat him up on the countertop, stepping up in between his legs. Dean slipped a soft “Hey-!” to no response. Holding his gaze, the merc shoved the gun and the take-out off with a growl, admittedly earning a flinch from Dean at the clatter of the pistol on the tile. 

"You should only keep the essentials on the counter."

“I-”

Brennon cut him off, tangling his other hand in Dean’s hair and tugging, earning a noise from the conman’s throat that could only be described as a helpless whine. Dean has to stop himself from begging for it then and there. The merc had to tilt his head back to look up at him, racking his eyes over Dean, slow and scorching, with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. His lips curled into a smirk. "No smartass remark, Amugha?"

Keeping one of his large hands buried in Dean's hair, the other moved to curl around the man's waist. The action pulled Dean closer, spreading his legs wider. Dean felt a chill all the way to his toes. 

"Didn't think so." Brennon gave a midnight laugh, his eyes falling upon Dean's wicked mouth. The things he planned to do…

Dean wasn’t shy about himself, but being overall comfortable with yourself is different from being comfortable buck-ass naked and wide open for some scary bear of a hunk, much less one who’d been trying to kill you up until a few minutes ago. Head yanked back, the absurdly tanklike hand on his back and in his hair, his absolute nudity and his legs completely spread for this guy, Dean absentmindedly wondered what business a contract killer could have with a smirk like that? It was really only good for making his embarrassment that much worse. Speaking of, fuck- he was still blushing like a goddamn teenager, red all the way down in his chest.

The roughness in Dean’s voice betrayed his impatience. “I don’t speak horny Irishman, either.” 

Brennon got in Dean's face, his lip pulled back in a silent growl. "I don't need you to understand anything I do or say." Holding eye contact, the Irishman curled his hand underneath the conman's ass, his fingers gently probing. His lips were a hair's breadth away, aching to mold against the brat spread out before him. "I just need you to look pretty and feel like a god."

With little more than a sharp tug, Brennon began slowly probing further inside of Dean.

Dean sighed high and desperate without meaning to when Brennon tugged sharply at his hair with one hand and began probing inside him with the other. 

His hips rocked against Dean's, pants growing ever tighter. God, he felt amazing. Dean was so fucking tight, and with him spread out just for him to see... Brennon wanted nothing more than to bury himself inside Dean, right down to the hilt. But there would be a time for that, and Brennon was Hellbent on making this last.

He took note of every scar, freckle, and mole thay dotted Dean's skin, making a mental note to give each and every one the attention it deserved. Especially the jagged scar on his mid back. 'Ask later.'

Brennon's finger- and soon enough, fingers- started at a slow pace. He rocked his hips in time with his fingers, tilting his head to the side. Upon noticing the deep flush spread across Dean's face, Brennon grinned as he leaned forward and spoke against Dean’s jaw, nipping lightly. "Red is a beautiful colour on you.”

Outside of the circumstances, he might’ve focused more on the- dare I say- amused nature of the stoic man’s words. Or maybe on the fact that the dude was inside him and they hadn’t even kissed yet why haven’t they kissed Dean really wants to kiss him. 

“Shut- ah-"

He left that failed sentence where it was and instead started over with a new one, with no lack of shame. “I- Jesus, B, you can’t just go in dry-”

Closer to his point but still interrupted. He took what he could get and instead tried to focus on another objective; hiding his stupid blushing face. He wrapped his arms around Not-Brendan’s shoulders and buried his face in the larger man’s neck. If his mind was clear he might not have even tried it, assuming the man wouldn’t let him get his hands and arms anywhere near his neck, but Dean wasn’t thinking all that clearly at the moment.

Brennon felt his chest puff up, his arm curling around Dean. Odd, this feeling. Call it what you will, but the Irishman wrote it up as masculine pride and deeply rooted satisfaction. He hadn't even gotten to the good shit yet.

And what shit would go down...

"You want wet and slick?" Brennon pulled Dean back, his words amused. He removed his fingers, bringing them up to Dean's mouth. His eyes held a dare, the swirling darkness gleaming in the kitchen lights. "Then show me."

Any inhibitions were drowned out by both knee-weakening attraction and an overwhelming need to win whatever game this was. Narrowed, glaring eyes met Not-Brendan’s in place of what he wanted to say.

Whatever. It wasn’t like Dean didn’t know where they’d been. And maybe he’d get a good face from the man in response?

He took the man’s wrist- gently, just to lead it- and took his fingers into his mouth, eyes fluttering up to him as he worked to wet the man’s fingers the only way he knew how. Well, the only way with his mouth. Any normal guy would probably have used lube.

His fluttering eyes were just focused enough to follow Not-Brendan’s expression through his thick lashes, hoping for something good.

Brennon kept his expression stoney, but his eyes- his God damned eyes- told a very different story: he almost broke then. Almost forced Dean to his knees, just so he could have that Hellishly hot mouth wrapped around his shaft. But he was a disciplined man, and he was going to win this little game.

He realized then, with his eyes full of fire, that this is what the situation had become: a game. A mind game, to see who would break first.

Brennon felt something wicked as he shifted Dean on top of the countertop. Then he lifted himself up there, on his knees, Dean halfway beneath him. His fingers were still in his mouth, and with each swirl of his tongue, the Irishman felt his cock jerk.

A soft groan escaped his lips, his eyes blazing with heat and sensuality. "Alright, Amugha." Brennon removed his fingers, gently but firmly pushing Dean back down. "Time for the magic."

Brennon hungrily looked over Dean.

The smaller man looked ravishing, his skin flushed and his body so deliciously bared to him. A dark smile of pure satisfaction graced his face, Brennon's hand running along the man's thighs.

"I think," he mused, leaning down to fan his breath over Dean's shaft. He licked his lips, briefly flicking his gaze to Dean's and back. His hands curled around his ass. "I think I've wanted to taste you since i was hired to kill you."

As his tongue ran along the shaft of his dick, Brennon curved his fingers into Dean, stopping until he got to the first knuckle.

The first groan he’d earned, and damn it felt good, was just as satisfying as he’d hoped it would be. The hooded lust in his eyes was more than enough for Dean to read just how much the man needed this. 

“The- I have a bed, you heathen-!” He managed to ramble as the man climbed over him. One thing managed to shut him up, though. The man’s smirk. Looking up at him from between parted legs, licking a stripe up Dean’s severely neglected member, he could’ve finished right there. 

His tongue was phenomenal and Dean really really really wanted more as soon as possible. It even made his reply late, though it didn’t make it disappear. “Doubt it. You seem much too profesional for that.”

And so Brennon took Dean's head into his mouth, his tongue flicking under the head. He glared up at Dean as he started a slow fingering pace. His teeth scraped against the man's shaft, the contact feather-light. Cheeky bastard. Brennon would have him screaming before the night ends, so he wasn't terribly upset.

He rocked his hips slightly, keeping his ache at bay. The Irishman felt damn near ready to burst at the seams, and Dean's cries weren't helping. His pants were too tight, too encompassing. Brennon needed this, though. He needed the build up.

“Don’t you bite me, you dog-”

Dean knew a few things for certain. 

One, Brennan wanted to win- he wanted Dean to fall apart first at the hands of the other.  
Two, he was not going to lose. He’d been bedded by others. He’d bedded others. This was no different. He could take this.  
Three, FUCK that felt sosogoodohmygod. He hadn’t expected Brennan to go down on him, not in the slightest, and why was he so good at it??  
And finally, what was probably the most helpful thing; Brennan wasn’t as composed as he wanted Dean to think. He recognized the larger man’s hips rutting against anything they could. 

“So good with your mouth, holy fuck-”

This, he could use.

Dean didn’t try to stop his soft, breathy moans (he refused to call them whimpers) and instead let them fall into a lewder tone than before, just for his beautiful partner. Oh, and he didn’t let that bulge hide on the sidelines. He lifted a leg and rutted his shin against it, firm but slow and gentle, just enough to jerk it awake. 

“Fuck, B, oh- good god, you- you got a great mouth, d’ya practice a lot?”

Dean's helpless whimpers (because that's what they were at this point) were symphonic. Music to Brennon's fucking ears. If he had the time and energy, he could listen to the man's ceaseless cries all day every day.

But then Dean, the bastard, started to rub against his cock. The Irishman thought he would come then, and he gave a rumbling groan- Dean's head still wonderfully in his mouth. Brennon felt himself rub against Dean's leg, feeling very much like a dog in heat.

Brennon, more than anything, wanted to fuck Dean into oblivion. He wanted him to beg for release, to listen to him call out for mercy. He wanted Dean to shatter in his very hands.

As if ordered, Brennon's hand curled around the base of Dean's cock. Leisurely, Brennon worked the man's cock, his hand moving up and down his shaft. His tongue flicked under the head, and he somehow managed to take him in a little deeper.

His gag reflex started. Brennon held himself over Dean, breathing through his nose. The Irishman ran his thumb over the rough skin of Dean's sac, softly dragging his nail over them.

Nonononono this wasn’t working at all as planned. Yes, the growling rumble in the man’s broad chest was just beautiful, but it hardly slowed him down. Dean didn’t want to finish first. That put him at a lower-hand, both making him more sensitive and fueling Not-Brendan’s arrogance.

But man, was it hard to hold back. He wanted to give in. To moan a little louder, to thrust gingerly into his torturous mouth. Speaking of, with each gag his face went a little darker, and he was slowly deteriorating, even being as stubborn as he was. 

He wondered absent-mindedly how the man knew so immediately that the underside of his head was such a sweet spot.

“N-No, hey- wait, wait, wait-” he breathed, squeezing the man’s upper arm. He wasn’t hey I’m uncomfortable with this panicked; he was fuck I’m losing panicked. “It’s too- it’s too early, I don’t want’a-” he tried to explain, to make the type-of-panicking clear.

Brennon was, to put it lightly, about to burst in his pants. It had been too long, and Dean tasted too good. His mind was a mesh of pleasure and blind lust, not focusing on anything but the cock in his mouth and the man beneath him. He very well could be delirious. Not that he gave a fuck.

The Irishman hollowed out his cheeks, his hooded eyes catching Dean's. Slowly, the merc pulled Dean out of his mouth. He gave a soft, wet pop once the conman had fully left his mouth.

"I have a week to bring your head to my client. A week I plan on fucking you on every piece of furniture you have, and maybe on someone else's." Brennon tilted his head, his inky black hair falling into his eyes. He slid his fingers out of Dean, his thumb gently grazing the curve of his sac. "Haven't quite decided yet," he murmured.

Dean hadn’t considered the possibility of their relationship lasting beyond a night. He wanted to melt into a puddle. A happy, endangered, sexually fulfilled and slightly-threatened puddle.

Perhaps because his mind was too clouded to process the information, his body jolted him back to focus with a shock of pleasure. Looking down at the man did NOT help him focus. Hair in his hungry eyes, lips parted, those fucking lips-

“I- I- I’m close-” he managed, completely bypassing any small talk about the week he was in for. They could talk about that later, but right now he needed to know where to finish because he literally could not last much longer with the unfairly handsome man between his legs. 

Brennon grinned and smoothed his hands over Dean's thighs and hips, stroking the tender skin. "I know," he rasped, eyes roaming. They settled on Dean's member, full and slick. His own cock throbbed in response. One last stretch, he told himself before going down on Dean again.

The Irishman held the conman's shaft in his hand. His thumb stroked over the head as his tongue made a lazy stripe along the side.

Brennon's other hand pinned Dean down by the man's hips; this was his time, and his time alone.

Brennon looked up at Dean then, and he saw the plea in his eyes. The flush along his skin, the sensuality in those soft curves. His breath caught, and his legs stiffened. Brennon took Dean back in his mouth, his breathing ragged.

The stiffness in his pants reached its peak, then, and warmth spread along his thigh. A soft groan rumbled out of him, almost like a purr. His eyes fluttered shut.

As Brennon flattened his tongue along the curve of Dean's shaft, the Irishman hollowed his cheeks and stroked along the base of the man's shaft.

Dean might think back and remember the man finishing, but in the moment he was too caught up to focus on anything but the knot tightening in his gut. Why was B so good at this? That was professional technique right there. 

Dean fell over the edge when he was pinned. He might not admit it, but being so at the mercy of this man, so helpless, unable to roll his hips, just take whatever he was given... 

His head tilted back, lips parted as he cried out, gasping, occasionally slipping a curse or a pleasure-addled “B~!”

When he’d finished he felt ready to collapse. Head back resting on the cool countertop, chest rising with each panting breath, sweat dotting his forehead. Ho-ly-shit.

Maybe he was dead. Maybe Dean shot him, because of a mistake or he just simply grew bored. Maybe his Afterlife- whether or not it was Heaven or Hell was still up for debate- would be filled with this wicked body and his damning curves.

But as the salty of Dean hit the back of his throat, he might be tempted to keep him for himself.

Brennon sat up after Dean finished cursing and he lay limp on the counter. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

His tongue over his teeth beastily as he gazed down at the man, his eyes burning. The Irishman felt his cock stiffened once again. While it had been a while, he certainly wasn't finished after one round.

With a satisfied smirk, Brennon slid from the counter. Smacking Dean's hip lightly, he leaned his hip against the counter and asked smugly, "Need me to carry you to the shower, Amugha?"

“No,” the smaller man shot down sharply, opening his eyes to glare up at him as the full extent of his embarrassment started to register. He rubbed his face and sat up. 

With a glance back at the Irishman- maybe checking his wrist for the half-unlocked cuff, maybe making sure the man didn’t misinterpret his movements as hostile- Dean slid from the counter and gathered his scattered clothes before fishing the key from his pocket and tossing it to Not-Brendan.

“S’this way. Can clean up your fuckin’ wrists while we’re at it.” 

Even walking away, hips swaying lightly, he gestured behind him to offer, “You pushed the takeout off of the counter; there’s a burger in there if you want it.” 

Brennon snickered, watching Dean carefully. He may have got him off, but he didn't become his friend; not when he still had a job to do. He caught the keys from reaction alone, the key and the cuff thudding metallically.

His eyes wandered over the man, lingering on his ass. Nice, the Irishman thought to himself before following along behind. Brennon wondered what it would feel like cupped in his hand.

"I don't eat off the floor. Despite what you may think, I'm not a dog."

Brennon words were harsh, but that was more from the man himself than from any actual hostility. Brennon was a rough man; his mannerisms mirrored that claim.

They entered the bathroom, and Brennon's hands dropped to his belt. Black. Military grade. Custom made. Weathered and worn. A small, inconspicuous fold that hid a knuckle blade. Durable.

His eyes scanned around idly as the Irishman went about stripping, memorizing and taking note of his surroundings.

“Self conscious, are we? I was offering ‘cause you’re clearly starving. It’s wrapped up anyway.”

Dean was matter-of-fact about it, leaning into the glass-walled shower to start the water. He was lacking tattoos, for despite a fondness for ink, recognizable markings weren’t great in his career. Of course, he couldn’t help the scars. The most notable ones graced his lower stomach, lower back, and mid-right thigh, plus a dozen scattered marks. Nothing to B’s, though. 

When he turned back to find the man stripping, he leaned against the wall and crossed his arms to watch openly. “You’re too pretty to be a merc,” he decided lazily.

Brennon snorted softly, finally revealing the tattoos and scars that marred his fair skin: swirls of intricate black around his shoulders, flowing down his biceps; pale, jagged scars littering his shoulders, chest, and stomach; left hand and forearm blackened with the tattoo that was there.

"Don't have my people back home tell you that. They'd do very bad things to a pet like you." The Irishman silently moved towards Dean, his starlit eyes gleaming.

His grin was deadly wicked, and his tongue ran along the edge of his teeth. He marked every bite and bruise he made and every scar that was already displayed on Dean's body, making mental notes. "I have my suspicions that I'll do even fouler things, though."

As tempting as a smug response was, Dean couldn’t ignore how weak in the knees this man made him. Being looked over somehow didn’t make him feel like a piece of meat, but rather managed to make him both self conscious and proud at the same time. So, his response was delayed. Not stopped, but hey, who could expect no response at all?

“‘Pet?’” He echoed simply, brow raised in some sort of half-assed attempt to pretend he wasn’t a complete fucking bottom.

At least he managed to lock his eyes with Not-Brendan rather than exploring his obnoxiously muscular body, or his handsome scars, or his fucking tattoos; because who the fuck told this merc how to check, like, everything off of Dean’s list? ...okay, maybe his eyes lingered a TINY bit on B’s devilish tongue, but just a tiny bit. Honest.

The delays Dean had were amusing, earning the man a knowing smirk. The Irishman's hand cupped his chin, angling his head back so he could see better. The eye on Brennon's palm seemed to wink at him. "Yes. Pet; plaything; toy."

Brennon leaned in and tilted his head to the side, the predatory gleam in his eye never faltering. As he leaned in closer, his presence swallowing up Dean, he quipped, "Feel free to add onto the list, Amugha."

With that and a playful flick to Dean's ear, Brennon stepped around Dean and into the shower. His hand also may or may not have brushed against the delicious curve of the smaller man's hip and ass. And he may or may have bit his lip to keep himself from yanking Dean to him and just fucking him on the spot. That would be unprofessional.

That's also why Brennon swore up and down to himself for not fucking Dean on the spot and really getting to touch Dean.

“Ugh,” Dean huffed. “You can’t just show up in a guy’s house, try to kill him, try to kill him again, blow him on the counter n’ just assume he’s yours,” he complained, trying not to show how easily the slight touch gave him goosebumps. 

He rubbed his eyes and followed the man into the shower, maybe just to allow the steam and water to hide his heated cheeks. His imagination was running with the idea of just being B’s. Just... maybe forever. He’d make up his mind when the guy finally got around to fucking him.

In the water, he wrapped his arms around the man’s waist, hugging him from behind in what wasn’t at all a hostile action, and even if he wanted it to be, likely wouldn’t do any damage to the tank.

At least from behind him B couldn’t see how easily the arrogant taunting had worked, not that Dean thought the man had to visibly see it to notice anything. B wasn’t an idiot.

"Assuming would mean there's doubt." Brennon winced as the hot water hit his tender wrists, but looked over his shoulder nonetheless. "I have no doubts." The merc turned back around, gently cleaning his wrists; crimson flowed down the drain in captivating swirls.

With a soft huff, the Irishman looked at the various soaps. "What d'you have that I can put in my hair and not look like a fuckin' show pony?" His mouth curled slightly, and his nose wrinkled in distaste.

He didn't even know what half the fucking labels were.

Brennon shook his head softly, his hands falling to rest on Dean's. His thumb made absentminded circles on the backs of his hands as he looked over the bottles. The Hell is this in? Fucking Hebrew? “This is ridiculous, honestly. What does half this shit even do?"

Dean was semi-charmed by the fond touch. Not that he’d show it. “It cleans you. Might be a foreign concept to you, but I think you’d be a very pretty show pony. But, that would mean I couldn’t ride you, unfortunately.”

He chose a bottle, but only pointed to it, maybe just because he didn’t want to move his hands and stop B’s touch. “That’s hair, and that one’s soap. That’s anti-bacterial, but I wouldn’t use it on something that fresh. Then again, I also wouldn’t cut my way out of handcuffs, but I guess it’s a personal-preference type thing.”

He felt guilty for forgetting about the cuts, and pressed a kiss to the man’s shoulder blade. The wounds likely hurt but from what he’d seen they weren’t so much dangerous as they were painful. 

Most of his wash wasn’t scented; partly due to a distaste for most scents, especially strong ones, and anything cologne or perfumey. It also helped him on the job; he had no way of knowing if a certain scent would distance a target because their father used to wear it or something. 

The roll of the eyes and a slight pinch to the hand us what Brennon gave Dean for his 'show pony' comment. But he took the first bottle that the man had mentioned, and squirted some onto his hands. The merc listened to Dean speak and chuckled at the quirk the man made about the cuffs.

Or he would have if he hadn't stiffened up from the soft kiss Dean gave to him.

It wasn't that Brennon didn't find the gesture to be negative, but he'd never been kissed like that.

With concern or fondness, or whatever the fuck the reason behind the kiss.

Brennon took a moment to collect himself and continued washing his hair. His back was still tense. For that, he tossed a soft "Sorry" over his shoulder. The Irishman was only sorry about being a piece of shit to him before.

Brennon pulled his hands from his hair and looked down at the small scars and calluses. The suds had turned his left hand white, parts of a flower peeking out from the bubbles.

Vines crept out from underneath the soap as well, and Brennon's eyes followed the intricate design all the way up to his elbow, where it seemed to imbed itself into his skin.

Dean tilted his head, let go of the man so he could wash himself, and tried to analyze the apology, the stiffness. Trying not to scare off the nearly vulnerable apology, he asked, “Sorry... for what...?”

The attempted murder? The cuff situation? The pinch? Or something unspoken, like the muscles tensing in his back at something as simple as a kiss?

Dean figured the man wasn’t one to put on the spot so he tried not to put pressure on him, and instead focused on washing his hair. 

Brennon didn't respond. Quiet fell over him as he grabbed what he really hoped was more hair product and not something else. It was then that he was thankful for the hot water hitting against his skin, the sound it made as it hissed down the drain. Anything was better than the soft quiet.

Don't think about it, Bren. Move on.

Letting the product sit in his hair, the Irishman rinsed off his hands. He faced Dean, and gently, he pushed Dean's aside.

His hands massaged the man, starting at the nape of his neck, slowly moving up.

"My name isn't Brendan. It's Brennon." The merc shifted slightly on his feet, watching Dean carefully. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything. Should have just stayed quiet. His sudden doubt's made his cheeks warm, and he just prayed that Dean would chalk it up to the water's temperature.

Dean might've purred at the large, strong hands, and found that his addiction to this man's touch wasn't restricted only to the ones of a sexual nature. He was so pleased by the massage that he almost didn't hear the introduction. Almost. "Brennan." He echoed the name as if to taste it, and looked up at the anxious badass with an almost sleepy smile, deciding, "I like it."

He recognized the not so subtle signs of Brennan's worry, but figured addressing them would encourage him to hide his thoughts and emotions, and Dean liked the softer side of him. Well, he loved the rough side, too, but this was pleasant in a different way. 

Dean sighed and leaned further into the hand. "You know, killer, you haven't kissed me yet." 

His eyes weren't mischievous. In fact, they were shut. He wasn't tempting or coaxing or teasing, and it sort of scared him. If he wasn't tempting, coaxing, or teasing, what was he doing?

Brennon gave a single, gentle tug on Dean's hair. "Brennon with an o, not an a. Bren-on instead of Bren-an." The Irishman continued with the massage despite the grogginess to Dean's words and the tension in his shoulders. Dean was probably tired, and the thought did nothing to stop the slight puff in his chest.

He's a man sized cat, the merc thought wryly, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

As Brennon finished up with Dean's hair, he had them switch positions, the suds rolling down his back and shoulders now. The pleased expression on the man's face distracted him enough that he almost didn't hear the word 'killer'. Almost.

It took him to piece together the whole statement. It took him an instant to cringe. "You don't waggle an ass like that and expect gentleness in return." Brennon tilted Dean's head back to get the stubborn suds at his hairline. "Kisses are for gentleness."

“Hey-“ he complained at the tug, not because he didn’t like it, but because he apparently liked it too much. “Come on, ain’t my fault I got it wrong. Your accent isn’t the clearest dialect,” he accused fondly.

Dean followed the words with a lazy, defensive huff, allowing the man to position him easily. “‘Kisses are for gentleness.’ Can’t blame me for doubting big-tough-Irish-bar-brawler doesn’t have a gentle side.”

He was legitimately just putting himself in the larger man’s hands. Trusting. Tilting his head back with the instruction, shutting his eyes, standing where he was put. It was so easy to give himself to Brennon.

The sleepiness was in part due to their earlier dance, but it was also pretty late by now. Dean had planned to simply have dinner and fall asleep. Maybe sketch out a plan on the blueprints of an art gallery. Certainly not this.

Brennon smiled softly against the man's temple, leaning in and nuzzling down to his neck. "You like my accent. All you Americans do." Cheekily, the merc nipped at the conman's jaw. "At least I'm not from New Zealand. Fuckers there sound like squirrels on crack."

The Irishman pulled Dean closer, his thumb softly caressing the man's bottom lip. 'Such soft skin...' Brennon mumbled softly, "Everyone has a gentle side. Even monsters like me." Such bittersweet words.

"It takes the right person or the right thing to bright it to light."

Brennon leaned in a little more, his breath fanning over Dean's mouth. "Do you wish to be kissed, pet?" He slowly backed them up until Dean was pressed into the wall. Brennon kept the hand on the other's mouth, his other arm bracing himself on the wall for support. "Whatever you need; all you have to do is ask, and its yours." His knee gently rested on Dean's thighs, ready to separate them at the order.

Dean had so much to address. Messing with him by doing a New Zealand accent was tempting- he could do a lot of accents very well- but now didn’t seem like the time so he stored it for later. React to the touch, the pinning, the nipping? No, that would sacrifice responding to the man’s words, which seemed much more important. That narrowed it down to two paths; addressing the ‘monster’ comment or the question. 

Dean’s mind worked fast, and it was usually exhausting, but he found it useful in times like these. 

He peered up at the man with slightly parted lips and a brilliantly wrecked gaze. “I want a lot from you,” he decided, throwing a tease into it by pressing his lips to the man’s thumb, a little sloppy. “But you should know the only thing monstrous about you is your fuckin’ size.”

He grinned and ducked smoothly under his arm, almost testing how long he could drag everything out before Brennon went mad. Not that he didn’t want to kiss. Or screw. But something told him it would only be that much better if he taunted and ducked and teased until Brennon lost it.

Drastic times call for drastic measures.

Picking Dean up as if he weighed nothing- which he did, to Brennon at least- the Irishman wrapped the man's legs around his waist. His breath almost caught at the sensation of their bodies sliding against each other, but the merc held firm- in more places than one.

Brennon dropped the hand at Dean's mouth down to the man's hip, gripping tender flesh. "Well," he asked in a midnight tone. His eyes grew hooded, dropping down to his mouth.

"Do you want me to kiss you? Or do you want to kiss me?"

His tongue ran across his teeth; he could almost taste the man already. Sugar, spice, and everything wickedly nice. Brennon tightened his hold on Dean, drawing the man impossibly closer.

“Hey-!” It was common vocabulary at this point. He almost squirmed but knew it would only satisfy the cocky man, so instead he wrapped his arms around his neck for balance. “Don’t pretend I have a say, we both know you’re the big-bad-tough-guy. The top, the leader, whatever you want’a call it,” he huffed defensively, keeping his face hidden over the man’s shoulder, biding his time with love bites to his neck. 

Dean meant it in a ‘whatever I answer, YOU’RE going to kiss ME’ fashion; he hadn’t meant it as a confession to his own nature, but that’s what it came out as, and he could only hope it passed him by.

Brennon reared his head back, away from Dean, and scowled down at him. Not in an irritated way, but in a What-The-Bloody-Hell-Are-You-Talking-About way. Did the wee cunt really think Brennon would force himself onto him? That he wouldn't have the conscience to ask Dean for what he wanted?

Trusting Dean to not fall and bust his ass, Brennon held the man's jaw firmly, making Dean look him in the eye. "You will always have a choice. You will always have a say."

His eyes narrowed, but his hand softened, cupping his jaw. "I won't force anything on you. I won't do anything you don't want me to. Speak up and say something. I'm not a complete monster, dickhead."

Wrapping up his little speech, the Irishman pressed his forehead against Dean's, the water beating down on him still hot and nearly boiling. Not that he minded much. The steam swirling around Dean was rather attractive, anyways.

Dean looked genuinely startled by the intensity, almost afraid, but the moment he understood what was going on he shook his head quickly, panicked. “I- no, nonono, that’s not what I meant-“ he stammered, worried the man might not forgive him if he thought Dean saw him that way. “I don’t- I didn’t think you’d ever, like-“ he shook his head again. “I meant, like, you’d end up leading it...? Even if I started it, you know- like, you’re you, and-“  
In simple terms, Dean was trying to explain that holy shit, no, I didn’t mean I thought you’d ever force me into anything, but instead he’d meant you’re so much more dominant than me, we both know I’m not really the type to somehow lead your 7’ big-dick-energy ass.

Brennon watched the man struggle to find the right words, his brow knitted quizzically. What is he on about…? His head tilted to the side as he listened, and then understanding dawned on him.

"Dean," his voice soft as he looked down at him. "I don't have to lead if you don't want me to. You can always put on your big boy pants and have your way with me whenever you like. Now, I've never been fucked in the ass, but Hell, there's a first for everything, right?" His grin was as dry as his joke.

The Irishman set Dean down, his hand lingering on the man's waist. After a moment of debate, the fucker got on his knees, hands on his thighs. "Do what you wish, mate. Fuck me. Bloody me up. I don't care." There was a gleam in Brennon's eye, a gleam that mirrored itself in his wicked grin. "I'm yours."

Dean’s voice was about as weak as his fuckin knees. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, like a sexually confused fish. “...what...? I-? Um-“ 

He didn’t know what to do. Searching the man’s expression for a clue, he was gaping and uncertain and so, so aggressively aroused. Literally throbbing. He might’ve taken a step back to balance himself if he wasn’t already against the wall. “I- I don’t, um-“

The functional part of his mind was operating only enough to scream internally about how stupid he was being and how fucking embarrassing this reaction was. The dysfunctional part, on the other hand, was only awake enough to think with basic hentai dialogue. You know; ‘fuck,’ ‘oh my god, his fucking lips,’ ‘(moaning)’ and the like.

Someone who didn’t know better could easily assume that he was fucking terrified. Maybe he was? He was already thrown off by the defensive stammering moments ago. 

His eyes fell to Dean's member hanging between his legs. Brennon felt the air almost whoosh out of his lungs at the sight, felt his cock stiffen in response. Dean sure was a beautiful sight to behold, even as he stood there filled with doubt and uncertainty.

The Irishman felt a hand slid over his abused shaft. He had nearly blue balled himself earlier, and even his own hand was enough to make it twitch. Brennon wet his lips before looking back up at Dean, fascination and wonder in his eyes.

His face flushed as his arousal hit him in unrelenting pangs and waves. "God, you're beautiful," he murmured softly, his hand starting to move at a faster pace.

Dean couldn’t believe it. The blood in his assassin’s cheeks, the wrecked and wandering gaze, everything. “Fuck, Brennon-“ he breathed, running slender fingers through messy hair. 

He managed to calm his nerves. Somehow, when Dean’s partner was dominant, he shrank into submissiveness, but when his partner was softer, gentler- then, he could take the lead. He stepped forward and tangled his fingers in Brennon’s dark locks, eyes glinting hungrily as he tugged back so the man would have to look up at him. “Brennon.”

He stuck his tongue in his cheek. “You’ve never been fucked?” 

Obviously, he knew the man wasn’t a virgin, but he was referring to being on the receiving end. He added, as he watched the man stroke himself, “Don’t finish ‘less I say so.”

Brennon felt himself relax as Dean walked up to him, his fingers tangled in his wet hair. His hand dropped almost immediately when Dean told him to, despite the ache it gave him. He didn't trust himself to continue without stopping. "No, I haven't. Most think I'm too large to get fucked."

The Irishman could hear the underlying strain in his voice, the need there. God he wanted Dean, in whatever shape or form, he needed him.

The throbbing in between his legs greatly agreed with the statement as well.

Dean frowned. “Mm.” He let one hand trail the man’s jaw before letting go, only for a minute to turn off the water and retrieve a big, fluffy towel. Holding up the man’s chin with one hand, the other began to dry his hair.

“S’ that to say no one’s ever touched your prostate?” 

He trusted the man was telling the truth; the frown stemmed from the idea of anyone denying this man a proper fuck.

Brennon shivered from the sudden cold, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Or, at least, Brennon would tell anyone who asked that it was from the cold. "No, no ones ever touched my arse like that."

Anticipation started to rise up in him. Brennon felt himself shift, trying to rub his aching shaft against something to quiet it down. His skin felt tingly and sensitive. Did Dean feel like this? All touchy feely?

The Irishman felt a scoff bubble up in his throat, but he stifled it; odd to think of how he survived it.

“Arse,” Dean echoed with a soft laugh. “So authentically European,” he teased, trying to lighten things a little. He held Brennon’s upper arm to guide him to his feet, and began to pat him dry.

“‘n, just to be clear,” he added, “if you don’t want that, I mean... some people just really don’t like the idea of anything up there, ‘n that’s fine...”

A way out. He believed, personally, that Brennon wanted it, and he didn’t have to use his people-reading superpowers to figure it out. He was allowing space for miscommunication; he didn’t know the man well enough to assume things like that. Okay, and maybe he wanted to hear it out loud. Sue the guy.

The Irishman shrugged indifferently, lifting his arms for the other it finish drying. "Like I said, I'm yours. I'm sure you've never fucked a contract killer. Why give you a first and not receive one myself?" Brennon's grin was wicked, but it held a softened note to it.

If he had been asked when he was a rutting teen he probably would have told Dean to go fuck himself. Then again, Brennon fucked anything that allowed him to back then. He suppressed a cringe; the professors he had... Not all of them pretty.

Mentally shaking himself, Brennon smiled down at Dean, the cold making his shaft twitch. "Pretty crisp in here, ain't it?" His skin was too hot, the air too cool. He felt like he was burning up, but he would wait. For Dean, he would wait.

Dean was finishing up with drying himself. “Mmn.” He hung the towel and took Brennon’s hand to lead him out and to his room, an open space with a comfy-as-all-hell bed and a huge window. Of course, they were a high enough story that privacy didn’t come into play. The city’s lights colored the walls. 

Dean turned to face the man when they stood at the foot of the bed, pushed up onto his toes, wrapped his arms around his neck and smiled warmly. It was hardly a moment before he tilted his head and pressed their lips together, soft but sure, one hand on the nape of his neck and the other tangled in his hair. Dean didn’t push further, didn’t even use tongue, just... eased him into it.

When Brennon saw the soft smile on Dean's face, something in his chest eased. It was an actual smile, not a grin or smirk, but a genuine smile. It lit up his face, brightened his eyes. Brennon smiled back, wrapping his arms around the man's waist. He drew him in closer, flush against his chest, enjoying the heat radiating off of his body. 

"Such a rawny heater," he murmured fondly against the man's lips, just before he was swept into a kiss.

For a moment, Brennon scarcely breathed. He simply lived in the moment, his mouth molding over Dean's. Brennon's hold on Dean tightened, almost afraid he'd disappear from his grasp. 

"No rún," he breathed against Dean's lips, his face lightly flushed.

He snorted, a soft exhale, and teased, “I keep tellin’ you I don’t speak horny Irishman.”

Dean guided the man so the backs of his legs were against the bed, and eased him down until Dean was straddling the merc’s waist, looking very proud of himself. “This is much better than bein’ shot,” he decided, tracing Brennon’s muscles, then his scars and tattoos. He was jealous of the tattoos. Okay, and maybe the muscles. Even the scars were badass, as much as he wished Bren hadn’t gone through getting them in the first place. 

Brennon, like the dog he had started to become, sat down obediently, his hands resting on Dean's hips. He couldn't look away from his face, the calculating and amused look in his eyes enchanting.

A shiver racked over him, his eyes closing for a moment. He'd never been touched like this; so reverently, so softly. Especially over his scars and tattoos. His partners either found them unseemly or he'd never given them time to think much about them.

As Dean softly touched his scars, he felt shame well up inside him. It burned, white hot, and it was all he could do to not growl. Brennon placed his forehead on Dean's shoulder, his back hunched. He softly kissed the man's warm skin, distracting himself.

“Hey, woah-“ Dean pulled back a little, cupping the man’s cheeks and meeting his eye. “What- what did I do?”

He was all concern, all understanding and warm. His brow was creased. Of course he’d read the man’s response, and even if he didn’t know exactly what was going on, he wasn’t blind to whatever had just coursed through the larger man’s veins.

Brennon looked up at Dean, a thin line of silver ringing his eyes. He pulled Dean closer, sighing softly. "You did nothing, Mo Rún. Nothing at all." The Irishman turned in Dean's hand, placing a gentle kiss there.

Dean isn't one of those people. He would have said something by now.

He turned back to Dean, giving a fond smile. Brennon took both of Dean's hands and placed then on his chest, half-assed attempt to slide them down lower. "Might me continue, love?"

Dean recognized that it was alright to carry on, and nodded. “Yessir,” he mock saluted, leaning down to press his lips to Brennon’s jaw. “We’ve got a week, you said- we can try this later, really. Don’t even have to do anything if you don’t want, n’ I’d be more than happy to take you.” 

He couldn’t stop his fingers from exploring; muscles, scars, anything and everything was just too good to keep his hands in one place.

Brennon let out a soft chuckle, his hands returning to the conman's hops. "Smartarse," he retorted, snapping his teeth together in Dean's direction. Okay, so maybe Dean was turning Brennon into a beast? The Irishman wouldn't even be surprised if he found the taste of raw meat tantalizing.

Laying back on the bed, Brennon watched Dean touch him, exploring the planes of his muscular form. The roaming hands heating his skin once more.

He rolled his hips against Dean's, keeping his hands locked behind his head. Brennon didn't trust his hands in the slightest.

Dean frowned, pausing after a while and looking up at the man. There was a beat before he whispered, like he was either upset, jealous, or horrified, “Why are you so hot?”

It wasn’t fair. Why was this guy even bothering with Dean? Certainly he could get anyone. Probably couldn’t walk through a club without earning a dozen invitations home. 

As if he’d just remembered the issue between Brennon’s legs, he shuffled back a little to straddle his thighs so the man’s member was in front of him. Almost absentmindedly he played with it, getting a proper look for the first time. Why was it so fucking big. He looked just absolutely starstruck.

The man above him was utterly maddening. Asking Brennon why he was attractive? Absolutely absurd. Fucking ridiculous. How could someone who looked like divinity call him hot?

His bottom lip snagged beneath between his teeth when Dean moved. The fucker straddled him like he owned the killer beneath him; in some ways he did. And when he touched his length, a groan rumbled past his lips. Brennon felt his head tip back, his eyes fall shut. Yes, thought lustfully. For the love of God himself, touch me there.

His hips bucked against Dean's hands; it had simply been too long for him. He needed this, and the thought almost earned itself a snort. A grown ass man, an assassin no less, so needy and so easily shaped and molded in this man's hands. So odd.

Dean’s gaze lifted to Brennon’s face and he might’ve paled, like a scientist figuring out exactly what earned each reaction. “Jesus, B,” he muttered at the groan, not judgmental, but fascinated. The faces he made...

The smaller man traced the vein in his shaft, hands warm and soft and gentle. He let out a soft breath at the sight of the man biting his lip, and maybe as a reward, trailed the pad of his index finger around the underside of his head. He wasn’t trying to be cruelly slow, he was just... exploring. “You should’ve been a pornstar,” he whispered in the most honest and genuine tone.

His hands gripped the bed sheets, his hair getting snagged and tangled in his death grip. Brennon though his eyes rolled back in his skull, his jaw clenched tightly. Just like in the shower, the Irishman was just as wound up and ready to go at it. He just hoped that his suffering wouldn't be too terrible.

"Well," Brennon started, his voice strained. "I met many brothel owners who thought the same." The joke was a rather lame one, but it took off the edge, if only a bit.

Not that it really helped much.

Dean ran his finger on the underside of his head, and a curse tore out of him. He bucked his hips up out of instinct more than anything, his lower back arching off the bed. "Fucking Hell, love. Using my tricks against me shouldn't be allowed."

Brennon glared up at Dean. The heat in his eyes was more from sexual frustration and near blinding lust than anger or hate. Although, with hands like that, it could be very easy to hate Dean.

Dean pouted. “Y’a big baby,” he accused half-heartedly, running the pad of his thumb over Bren’s head just for good measure before crawling half-off of him to fish out lube from his nightstand. He shimmied back down to Brennon’s thighs again, offering another dazzlingly goofy smile. “Still haven’t told me what you want’a do tonight. I’m really gunna be happy with... well, next to everything. We’ve got a week.”  
Maybe he suspected the man might need longer to work up some trust?

Brennon took a minute to just breathe and get himself under control. He didn't think he could take getting his asshole resized tonight; another night, yes, definitely, but not when he was rutting already.

But he wanted to show Dean he could be compliant, that he could do this one thing for Dean. Brennon released his pent up breath, setting his hips back down. His hands kneaded Dean's thighs, opening his eyes to gaze up at the conman, eyes glazed over in a primal heat. "I'm all yours, love. Fuck me, kill me, do what you like."

Brennon's hands moved up to curve around Dean's ass. "All yours," he whispered, a grin spreading over his lips.

Dean was being handed more trust than he’d ever had, by a man he’d met that evening, who’d been hired to kill him.  
He leaned back a little into his hand without even knowing it as he tried to straighten his thoughts. Luckily, it seemed like he understood the man’s thoughts, and nodded. “Later, then.”  
He smiled and experimentally jerked the larger man’s shaft, head tilting the way it always seemed to with his curiosity.

As Dean moved forward on him, Brennon felt a groan start to form on his lips, but he didn't allow it to pass over. He already failed to do one thing by Dean, and he would be damned if he didn't at least lay there and act right by him.

And then Brennon felt his hand wrap around Dean's. He didn't make Dean stroke him faster, he just loosely hung on, steadying himself.

In his mind, he imagined a mouth with wicked things to say wrap around him, the eyes that looked up at him filled with devilish delight.

The Irishman began praying to whoever was listening that he would survive this with his sanity.

The smaller man pouted at the silence. He leaned forward and let his breath graze the Irishman’s cheek, demanding, “Don’t stop yourself, or I’ll have to make it so you just can’t help but moan.”  
The grin that followed was maybe a tiny bit crueler than need be, but it wasn’t cruel cruel. It might have qualified as the latter, however, when the smaller man flicked Brennon’s head and nibbled on his earlobe.

Brennon had stilled as Dean leaned over him, his breath hitching. Such mighty words, he thought, with faint amounts of both amusement and wonder. And then Dean grinned, and the merc felt his breath hiss out between his teeth.

The Irishman's hands roamed, then; up his back, across his shoulders. They kept at a curiously slow pace, Brennon's broad hands exploring the span of Dean's body. By the end of the week, Brennon wanted to know every inch of this body. All of its curves, scars, and tastes.

Brennon's fingers bit inch Dean's shoulders, his nip earning itself a deep-seeded rumble. "You like to play little tricks," he mumbled softly, tilting his head to give Dean better access to his ear and neck. "You might make me moan like a hussy just for the fun of it."

“I’d love to,” Dean agreed. “But it’s getting a little late tonight, wouldn’t you agree?” 

With that, he was back to working the man towards his climax. Dean spit into his hand, stroking with perfected, expert movements, now they were consistent and determined. He wouldn’t back off or tease- for now, at least- and just watched the man beneath him with a revered awe mixed with smug pride. Man, he was pretty. And he got to explore? What raffle had Dean won?

A feral smile graced Brennon's face, making him wolfish. He imagines he looked rather beastly: pale skin flushed with wild delight, midnight dark hair curled along his forehead, and a ravenous look in his eyes. His tongue raked across his teeth. A beast indeed.

"There's nothing you could do to me that I wouldn't make time for, love." Prideful words coming from a man who rocked his hips against into a slick fist. He was only slightly frustrated from the fact that it wasn't actually Dean, but Brennon was just glad to have the man even to touch him at all.

Brennon closed his eyes and relished in the hot hand over his ache. Soon enough, the Irishman was flexing his hips, thighs shifting and opening up. He even wrapped his legs around Dean, losing track of who started where.

"Aye, mate..." His breathing went a little erratic, his shaft growing and throbbing with need. "This is rather..." He hissed out a breath, flashing his teeth in a soundless snarl. "Cruel," he grounded out.

“But you’re just so pretty when you squirm,” Dean complained, increasing his grip the tiniest bit, working him a little further. He wasn’t wrong. Brennon was absolutely magnificent, and he almost wished he had a camera nearby. He’d fuckin’ frame this shit.

Still, he gave in and did what he could to pull the man to a climax. “Come on, babe. Whenever you’re ready, yeah?”

A shudder ran through him, shooting lightening straight to his cock. "Ah, fuck me," he said breathlessly, his words tinged with unmistakable, primal need. It screamed through him, roared more like.

He throbbed, his hips off the bed just so. Brennon grounded his teeth, a muscle in his jaw feathering. The Irishman opened his eyes to look at Dean, a 'Come hither' gleam in them.

Dean snickered, warm and a little mean. “Not tonight, big guy.”

He did, however, lean forward when he noticed the hungry gaze; accepting the kiss. The guy was a good kisser, not that he had any right to be.

A soft growl tore through him, and the Irishman's hands kneaded Dean's ass as his teeth caught the man's bottom lip. "Smartarse," he managed, and drew the conman closer, laying Dean over his body like a blanket.

One of Brennon's legs slid in between Dean's thighs, opening him up real nice. He was like a gift from God himself. An unspoken prayer's answer. No way in Hell was Brennon going to act the fool and fuck this encounter with divine intervention up.

"What do you want, Dean?" Brennon's voice was husky, velvet like, and spoken against the man's lips. He felt his eyes settle onto Dean's, watching him intently; not that the war raging inside of him and his cock wasn't evident.

His hands slid over Dean's rear, kneading in the most important areas. "What is it that you crave?"

“You.” He didn’t hesitate, didn’t think about it. The man was fairly easy to please, and leaned back to push into his grip, practically purring. He dipped down to kiss him, but it lasted only a moment.  
“Bren, you’re going to tire me out if you keep working me up like this.”

Brennon felt a grin tug at his lips, his eyes darkening. The discipline it took not to tear into Dean was astounding in and of itself. Running his tongue along his teeth, the Irishman purred back darkly, "That's my intention, love."

With that, Brennon sat up, Dean going flush against his chest. Taking Dean's hands, the merc dragged them from his stomach all the way to the nape of his next, where he smiled and let them go.

"Do know that is is perfectly alright to scream and shout; let it all out." A sly remark coming from a bastard of a man.

Brennon's index and middle fingers found their way into his mouth, his tongue lubricating them. Not the same as Dean doing it, but lovely nonetheless. When he slid them out of his mouth, a string of spit stretched out from his mouth.

His hand moved south, going to curve along the man's rear. God, this man was beautiful.

Brennon's need grew, causing his cock to throb almost painfully.

Dean looked away, red faced and stubborn. No fair. Why was Brennon so good at shutting him up? Nobody was good at that. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he accused, voice a little less confident than he’d imagined. 

Ugh, his tongue across his teeth? Swoon.

“I can take it,” he protested, ignoring the logic of being prepared first. He was impatient and knew that Brennon would take way too much time just making him shake. A throb told him he was hard again,

Brennon leaned forward, chuckling softly in faint amusement. The one who could mouth off to the unbound assassin was the foolish one, but the Irishman had no intention of say as much. It was a rather open secret.

His teeth grazed Dean's neck, featherlight and holding a wicked truth: he would give and take, but he would always be the prowling beast that he was, animalistic in more ways than one.

"I expect you to beg, darling." His fingers slid inside of Dean, going until they couldn't go in any further. "I expect you to thrash, to hiss and moan," Brennon murmured against Dean's warm skin, giving love bites and soft kisses. "I expect you to unhinge along with me, Dean."

“I don’t-” So close. So close to defending himself, but Brennon had to go and do that, and now his argument is completely invalidated because he’s making that noise. You know the one. 

“Hhah~mff-“ he squeezed the man where he was positioned above him, and let his head hang so his forehead was against the man’s shoulder. It exposed his neck, but hid his rather expressive face.

What would he even say? 'I don’t beg? Don’t moan?' Brennon could prove him wrong, hell- he already was.

The merc made soft 'tut tut's and ran his free hand up to tangle in Dean's hair. He gently yanked and pulled on the man's hair until he sat up straight in his lap; Brennon's smile was almost cruel. "Sit up straight, love. Don't hide." He nipped at the underside of Dean's jaw, leaving faint marks.

Brennon's fingers picked up a leisurely pace, taking their time to move deeper. In, bite, out, kiss and repeat.

His hips thrust against Dean's, and the idea that Brennon would have this exquisite beauty for a whole week- someone red faced and trying to fight back his moans- astounded him.

“I wasn’t!” He protested, hips grinding in a slow rhythm with the man’s fingers. Dean almost looked like he was gritting his teeth in response to the way Brennon pulled his head back. He wasn’t a fan of pain, really, but the control demonstrated by tugging his hair like that was terribly amazing. “Come on," he hissed, half whispering.

Brennon felt his lips tug upward, his teeth bared in a midnight smile. "Come first and I'll think about it, love." His tone was taunting, just «asking» for Dean to give a sharp retort, for a reason to deal a devilishly delightful punishment. Not that it would really be a punishment.

"So," Brennon asked, his lips brushing over Dean's. "Do you want my hand or my cock? Choice is yours, really." He kept his smile, masculine pride fueling his ego.

The merc would be beastial before the night's end, he new. Might as well live in the moment until then.

“I- I- I already did!” He stammered, referencing the man’s devilish mouth. The man had difficult stamina, but he knew that a second climax would definitely leave him sore, and that’s around where he’d get embarrassingly whiney, too. His chest rose and fell with his soft pants, like he was displaying the purple marks and bites. 

“I- just- fuck me, Brennon,” he managed, hoping that was a satisfying enough response.

Dean had been painfully beautiful before, his jaw clenched and his skin beautifully flushed. The Irishman felt apprehension well up in him at the prospect of Dean seated over him, his body stretching to accommodate his girth and length.

Brennon felt his shaft throb from just the imagined image.

As he took the man, his jaw dropped- literally; his lips parted and he was panting softly, but his breath was hitching at the same time. “Ah- hhah- fuck,” he breathed, one hand squeezing the man’s shoulder, the other on his chest. Still, he wasn’t pained, and didn’t indicate for him to stop.

Brennon blew out a long breath, his jaw tensing. Was it possible to feel as if in both Heaven and Hell from a single man? The Irishman was quickly learning these things he never thought to know, especially when Dean's grip on his shoulder tightened.

His hips slowly thrust up into Dean, one hand going to support himself on the bed, the other holding onto Dean's waist. His breath turned ragged, his skin flushed in the cheeks.

As he started to pick up his pace, gritting his teeth from Dean's heat, Brennon's eyes watched the other's face carefully.

Dean’s expression didn’t contort into pain; he wasn’t hurt, after careful preparation and, well, having a bit of experience. Not that it wasn’t a lot to take. 

Dean’s blush wasn’t just in his cheeks; it bled down into his chest and shoulders, too. The corner of his bottom lip caught between his teeth. It might not have been the most organic reaction; rather, it was one his born-to-please, kind-of-a-pornstar-but-only-for-his-profession-he-promises ass had trained into himself.

“Big guy, huh?”

He had to get in some kind of bite, some tease or joke, like he was promising himself that he wasn’t vulnerable.

Brennon felt a smile tug at his lips, amusement dancing in his eyes. Even an untrained eye could see the forced quip, the way he wouldn't hold his gaze for too long. He seemed almost scared, but of what, he couldn't quite tell.

He moved them, then. The Irishman whirled them around so that he was on his knees, thighs spread for better balance; Dean was still wrapped around him. Leaning back at an angle so as to allow Dean more balance himself, Brennon kept at a steady pace.

"You seem to think so," he shot back, flexing his hips. His hands went to Dean's waist, urging his hips to rock against his own, causing his shaft to further penetrate the conman.

“Jesus-!” The smaller man yelped at the sudden twist, groaning; it was a mix of someone who’d been embarrassed and someone with cramps. Or, you know, being fucked. “Fuck, Bren, couldn’t stay on the bottom for more than a minute?” He groaned, managing a smirk. His blush didn’t lighten, though, and neither did the way his eyebrows were furrowed a little.

"Oi, you gave up topping, mate." His accent was impossibly thicker than his cock and Dean's lovely thighs combined, at this point. His smile turned midnight soft at Dean's groan, and Brennon leaned in to nuzzle at his neck. "Cheer up, I'm sure I'll make it up to you, love."

As if you seal the promise, Brennon bit down on the skin that curved from neck to shoulder, his tongue then following behind to smother the pain.

Brennon ran soft, tender kisses along Dean's neck, giving a soft moan of appreciation. The man simply tasted delectable. His tongue dipped into the hollow of his collarbone, and he opened his eyes to look up at Dean, the look in his eye almost childishly innocent.

“Ah-Aw, fuck, you’re such a bully-!” He whined, head tilting back to give him better access to his neck, and hissed at the bite. “Quit bein’ so mean and just fuck me, would you?”

The conman was impatient, but that was no surprise. In an attempt to remind Brennon of the urgency, he rolled his hips; this was only punishment for himself, though, and he hissed and laid his head back again.

Darkly amused laughter rumbled past his lips, and Brennon eased Dean down onto the bed, gently laying his head on the pillows. His hands kneaded along Dean's open thighs, moving lower of their own accord.

"This isn't even a fuck, mate. This is a Genesis." There was a glint to Brennon's eyes, one that was filled with lust and something more, something soul consuming. "This is one side to the duality of man, Dean."

He leaned forward, his hips thrusting into Dean, the slap of flesh against flesh the only sound other than his steadily laboured breathing. "And I will not be rushed."

“You’re so damn intense-!” Dean managed the quip, but it was weak. He clawed at the man’s back, but filed nails failed to break the skin. A shameful whine passed his lips, squeezing the man with his legs, head tilted back, chest and face red. “C-Come on, Br- fuck!”

It was very clear, the exact moment Brennon brushed that bundle of nerves. The larger man chuckled darkly, leaning in close to Dean's face. "I've been called far worse, love." 

He kissed him, toned arms wrapping around Dean's waist, all the while driving into him vigourously. Brennon's skin flushed, spreading down his neck and into his shoulders and chest. Sweat started to dot along his skin, the sensation of beads of sweat running over sensitive skin rather stimulating. He groaned softly, slipping Dean's legs higher up on his waist.

Dean was a mess; breathless and moaning and just holding on for the ride. He bit Brennon’s shoulder just to quiet down a little, not that it did much. The shocking electricity coursing through him, the comfortable full feeling, the man’s breath and grunts; it was all so perfect, and he didn’t last as long as his pride might’ve wished. “Fuck- god, I’m close, you fuckin-” He interrupted himself with a noise he didn't know he could make, pleasure crashing over him in waves.

Brennon felt Dean tense around himself, the friction only adding more pleasure to his swollen member. His hair fell into his eyes, some sticking to his nape. As Dean went undone, the Irishman picked up his pace; not that it did very much, because soon after, Brennon felt himself swell. On a whim, he pulled out at the last moment, panting as he came on Dean's stomach. The smaller man whined when he pulled out, but it wasn’t clear if he was sore or wished he'd finished inside. 

Brennon sat there a while, just catching his breath and debating if he could get up and get a towel. Eventually, he pushed himself up- earning a whine from his partner- and retrieved a towel from Dean's pristine bathroom. When he returned, he found Dean laid panting, covered in cum, and red in the face and chest. Honestly, it wasn’t a bad look for him, and it was apparently one of the only times he'd shut up. Brennon slid back onto the bed with a grin, pressing his lips along Dean's jaw before laying on his side. "Testy testy," he mumbled softly, his eyes seeming to dance with amusement. "No need to make a fuss, mate."

He began cleaning Dean's stomach off, taking his merry ol' time, just to see if Dean would squirm. He did. "Need anything? A drink or some crisps?" Brennon thought about it a moment. "Do you even have crisps?"

“Would you chill with the European shit n’ just-"

"I am European, mate, there's no-" his tone had been mild, but his words were swiftly cut off as Dean pulled him closer. His mouth curved over Dean's mouth easily, and when he pulled away, Brennon was tempted to pull himself back to the American.

Dean smiled. “I’m fine. Spent. Tired. But fine.” 

Brennon cleared his throat, an attempt to smother his own smile. Not that it worked. "Well, seems I did my job right, then." 

The Irishman busied himself wiping down the last of their mess while Dean looked on, charmed. Brennon was handsome, warm. Not as sharp as he'd seemed before. He kissed the man's neck and nodded. "Throw that on the floor, I'll take care of it later. It's late and I'm about ready to pass out; I don't know if super humans even have to sleep, but you're welcome to join me."

His hair was disheveled and his cheeks were still a little flushed. Scattered, purple marks spotted his neck, shoulders and chest, and he might have light red spots on his hips where the man had been gripping him. It would probably bruise lightly, but it was the good kind of bruise, like an echo of their night. Dean was the epitome of 'Recently Fucked.' He rocked the look.

Brennon slid off the bed, his mind racing with thought. He had expected to just kill the man earlier, not fuck him twice in the span of an hour; there was still a job to do. 

It wouldn't hurt to get some sleep though, right? It probably wouldn't be wise to sleep in the bed, but he could just wait for Dean to fall asleep and then move to the couch. Brennon nodded to himself, dropping the towel on the floor in the corner before slipping back into bed, pulling Dean closer to him. The Irishman tucked Dean into his side, his chin resting on the man's head. "Even Deadpool and Superman have to sleep, mate." With that said, Brennon closed his eyes and softly caressed the length of the conman's arm soothingly.

"Superman isn't a superhuman," Dean grumbled, snuggling into the bear of a man. "He's Kryptonian." 

Dean fit perfectly when he curved into Brennon's side. He was warm and comfortable, and Dean decided he might never leave his arms. The dangerous man had tried to kill him, but hey, who hadn't? The thief fell asleep easily, worn out and content, eased by merc's gentle touch. His breath softened and slowed; even without snoring, a watchful eye could identify his rest.

'What a fucking nerd,' Brennon thought, smiling softly to himself. Despite himself, Brennon found himself wrapping his arms around the young lad, sliding further into the sheets. His leg even snagged around Dean, tangling with his legs. 'I'll just sit here a while. To make sure he stays asleep.' That's what Brennon told himself, anyway, but as it seemed, fate had other plans.

A little while after cocooning Dean, Brennon felt the first tendrils of sleep snaking through his mind. So much for that idea. Soon enough, the men were both sound asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are SUPER appreciated!


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